by Peter James
There was a long silence. John continued to stare at the words, thinking to himself, wondering how on earth they could be doing this. The linguist interrupted him.
‘If they are doing this spontaneously, John, then I think you’ve got some pretty remarkable children. They have a skill that I would think is quite unique. I’ve never heard of it before, ever.’ He gave John a look that should have filled him with pride.
But instead, John found himself feeling very uneasy.
58
‘I think we should take them back to see the psychiatrist, Dr Talbot, again, don’t you, John?’
John sat at the kitchen table, cradling his martini. He was unsettled and baffled by what the linguist, Reggie Chetwynde-Cunningham, had told him, and he was fretting about the email he had received from Kalle Almtorp.
Three couples who had been to the Dettore Clinic had been murdered.
Christ.
Three couples who had been to the clinic had all had twins. The murders had happened in America; that was one small blessing – the distance.
So far.
‘Did your linguist chap at work have any explanation for – for how they could be speaking like this? Talking perfect English backwards with every fourth letter missing?’ Naomi asked.
John shook his head. ‘He didn’t.’
‘We’ve been waiting for them to speak their first words to us, for them to say Dada or Mama, and they’ve said nothing and yet they’re speaking perfect English to each other in code. Doesn’t that spook you? It sure as hell spooks me.’
He stared ahead, pensively. ‘It does. It’s just so strange.’
‘Do you think that Dettore did something? That maybe he messed up some important gene and their brains are wired up wrong?’
‘I think that’s too early to speculate. I guess if they keep speaking like this we should take them to a neurologist.’
‘Don’t you think we should take them to one now?’
John walked over to the wall where the baby-monitor speaker was mounted and listened. ‘Are they awake?’
‘Yes, I was waiting for you to get back so we could bathe them together.’
She sat down looking pale. John watched her. He felt terrible. She buried her face in her hands. ‘After all we’ve been through. God, why is life so bloody unfair?’
‘We have two beautiful children, hon.’
‘Two beautiful freaks.’
John walked back over to her, rested his hands on her shoulders and kissed her neck. ‘Don’t ever think that. Luke and Phoebe are what we wanted. They’re smart. They’re much smarter than other kids their age. We just have to learn to adjust.’
‘Why are they speaking in this code? People talk in code when they have secrets. Why are they doing this? Are they wired wrong – or are they much smarter than we realize?’
‘I don’t know,’ he said helplessly.
Naomi looked up at him. ‘We’ve made a mistake, haven’t we?’
‘No.’
‘I just wish – that we – had – you know – a normal life. Normal kids.’
‘Normal kids like Halley?’
There was a long silence. John looked again at the silent baby monitor, then picked up his glass again.
‘That isn’t what I meant,’ she said. ‘And you know that.’
John twiddled the olives on their stick, studying them pensively as if trying to read them like runes.
‘They just stare at me sometimes,’ she said. ‘Like – like I’m just nothing. Like I’m just some kind of a machine that exists to feed them and serve them.’
They went upstairs, and as they approached the children’s room, Naomi said, ‘I think we should consider giving them separate rooms soon. That was something Dr Talbot mentioned – to help them develop their own identities.’
‘He said when they were a little older.’
‘I know, but I think it might be good to start separating them now.’
John raised a finger to his lips to silence her, then stopped outside the door. Beyond, he could hear Luke and Phoebe chatting animatedly, and again it sounded like they were speaking in their code.
He opened the door and immediately they fell silent.
‘Hi, Luke, hi, Phoebe!’ he said.
Both stared up from the floor, where they were playing with wooden bricks. Luke in a striped sweatshirt, baggy jeans and trainers, his blond hair flopped over his forehead. Phoebe in a lilac tracksuit and barefoot, her hair looking neat. Both blue-eyed, the picture of utter, adorable innocence. He shot a glance at Naomi who was staring, as astounded as he was, at the intricate and geometrically perfect Mandelbrot pattern, like some elaborate miniature crop circle they had made on the floor.
‘Ebohph eklih,’ he said, his eyes darting from Luke to Phoebe and back. But there was no reaction.
‘Pretty pattern!’ Naomi said.
John left the room for a moment, hurried to the bedroom, grabbed his camera and came back.
‘Bath time!’ Naomi said breezily.
John snapped the children with their creation. ‘That’s beautiful, Luke. Beautiful, Phoebe. Did you design that together?’
They both continued to stare at him in silence. And then, as if pre-determined, they both started laughing and smiling at their parents. A rare occurrence and one they only shared with their parents, nobody else.
‘Very pretty!’ Naomi said. ‘Aren’t you both clever!’ She looked at John as if seeking some explanation, but he had none. ‘Mummy’s going to run your bath!’
She went out of the room. John stayed and took some more photographs. Both children remained motionless, just staring up at him. After a few moments he heard the sound of running water.
Shoving the camera into his trouser pocket, he kneeled down and scooped Phoebe up in his arms and kissed her. ‘Clever girl!’
‘Mittab,’ she said, with a smile
‘Mittab!’ he cooed back, then carried her through to the bathroom and handed her to Naomi. Then he went back to fetch Luke, who was staring, as if deep in thought, at the pattern of bricks on the floor.
‘Did you design this, Luke, or your sister?’
Luke pointed to himself, and smiled.
John picked him up in his arms and kissed him on his forehead. Then he stared into his son’s wide blue eyes. ‘That’s really clever, you know that? Really clever!’
Luke’s face puckered into a grin, and for a moment, John felt a sunburst of happiness explode inside him. Hugging him tightly, he said, ‘You’re such a clever little boy, aren’t you? Mummy and Daddy are so proud of you! So proud!’
As John carried him into the bathroom he saw Naomi, sleeves rolled up, testing the water with her finger. Phoebe, half undressed, was sitting on the floor watching her. He undressed Luke, waited until Naomi was happy with the temperature, then gently put him in the water. Luke splashed playfully with his hands, beaming, trying to sink the yellow plastic duck and little boat that were in with him. Then Naomi pulled off Phoebe’s tracksuit bottom and lifted her up and lowered her into the water.
The phone rang.
‘Can you get that?’ she said to John.
John went through to the bedroom and grabbed the cordless. It was Rosie.
‘Hi!’ he said. ‘How are you?’
‘I had lunch with Naomi the other day and she looks terrible,’ she said, in the direct way she always spoke. ‘You have to get her away, give her a break, she’s going to crack up.’
‘I think we both are,’ he said.
‘Just go on a holiday, take her somewhere nice, somewhere in the sun and cherish her. She’s a great person, John, she deserves cherishing. A little TLC wouldn’t go amiss, you know?’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘You’re wrong, it’s very simple. You bring the kids to us, we’ll look after them, and you take Naomi away.’
Then he heard the scream.
Oh Jesus.
‘Johhhnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!’
‘
Call you back,’ he said, dropping the phone and running.
He burst into the bathroom. Luke was screaming. Naomi, eyes bulging in hysterics, her face and clothes spattered with blood, was holding Phoebe in her arms. The bathwater was crimson. Blood was running down Phoebe’s legs and down the side of the bath.
‘Help me!’ Naomi screamed at him. ‘John, for God’s sake, help me!’
59
‘It’s OK, darling,’ Naomi said. ‘It’s OK! OK!’
In the paediatrician’s office, Phoebe clung to her mother’s jumper as if it were a life-raft in a stormy ocean, screaming her lungs out.
Dr Clive Otterman, a short, mild-looking man, wore a permanently bemused frown that always reminded Naomi of Buster Keaton. He stood by his examining couch, eyebrows raised in a saintly air as if he had all the time in the world.
Wrapping her arms protectively around Phoebe, then kissing her, Naomi said, ‘He’s a nice man, darling, you’ve met him before lots of times, he isn’t going to hurt you.’
Phoebe continued screaming. Naomi looked at John, who stood beside her helplessly. They had left Luke at home with her mother, who had come up for the day.
Dr Otterman stood patiently in his grey suit, hands behind his back, and gave the smile of a man used to any kind of behaviour a child could throw at him.
‘He isn’t going to hurt you, Mummy promises you!’
Phoebe’s response was to howl louder. Naomi stared helplessly at John. She felt like screaming at him. You’re her father, for God’s sake. Do something!
But all he did was shrug back, equally helpless.
She carried Phoebe across to the couch, and tried to lay her down on it, but she screamed even more loudly, tugging so hard on her roll-neck that she was pulling it out of shape.
‘Darling!’ Naomi said. ‘This nice doctor just wants to take a look at you!’
The screaming got even worse. Naomi looked despairingly at the paediatrician, whose eyebrows shot up in a winsome smile. Come on, you’re a specialist, for heaven’s sake, you ought to know how to handle an infant!
As if by magic, Dr Otterman suddenly produced a pink Barbie doll, which he held up for Phoebe to see. The effect was instantaneous. Phoebe reached out her hands and he placed the little doll in them. Phoebe grinned suddenly, her lips puckered, and she said, ‘Barbie!’
For an instant Naomi could believe neither her eyes nor her ears. She stared at John as if seeking confirmation and he stared, equally startled, back.
Phoebe had spoken! Her first word.
John beamed.
‘Barbie?’ Dr Otterman said. ‘Do you like Barbie, Phoebe?’
‘Barbie!’ Phoebe said, then giggled.
Through all her anxiety, Naomi felt a sudden burst of happiness exploding inside her. She was speaking! Her baby girl was speaking! Speaking normally! This was incredible! She stared at John, wanting to throw her arms around him in joy.
‘You like Barbie dolls?’ Dr Otterman said. ‘You like playing with Barbie?’
‘Barbie!’ Naomi said to her. ‘Darling, Barbie!’ She turned to the paediatrician, elated. ‘She’s speaking! Her first words!’ She was so happy she could hug the man!
‘Barbie!’ John said to Phoebe.
‘Barbie!’ Phoebe said again and burst into a fit of giggles, as if this was the funniest thing in the world. ‘Barbie! Barbie!’
Tears welled in Naomi’s eyes. John put an arm around her and squeezed her.
‘Incredible!’ Naomi said.
‘I told you, they’re fine,’ John said. ‘They’re fine!’
Naomi nodded, tears welling in her eyes. ‘Yes.’
Phoebe, giggling, gave no resistance now as the paediatrician, assisted by Naomi, removed all her clothes, repeating the word Barbie over and over, as if she had made the most important discovery of her life.
Dr Otterman examined her thoroughly externally, then to Naomi’s surprise, Phoebe allowed him, without protest, to take a blood sample, followed by a brief internal examination with a laparoscope. After that he gently probed with a tissue between Naomi’s legs and when he withdrew it, Naomi saw spots of blood on it.
‘Barbie! he repeated back to her like a secret code between them.
‘Barbie!’ Phoebe said.
The paediatrician removed his gloves, washed his hands, helped Naomi to get her dressed again, and went back behind his desk.
He made several notes with a fountain pen, then set it down and frowned. After some moments he picked it up again, then leaned back in his chair.
‘Dr and Mrs Klaesson,’ he said, ‘this internal bleeding last night – was it a very hot bath?’
‘No warmer than usual.’
‘I’m going to send the blood away for analysis – the results will take a couple of days.’
‘What do you think is wrong with her?’ Naomi asked. ‘Is she very sick? I mean – internal bleeding – do you think it could have been caused by the bath water being too hot, or is it something—’
He looked uncomfortable suddenly. ‘I think we should wait for the lab tests before jumping to any conclusions.’
‘Wh-what sort of conclusions?’ Naomi said, alarmed.
Dr Otterman stood up. ‘I really don’t want you worrying needlessly. I’ll call you as soon as I have the results.’
‘But what do you think it could be?’ John asked. ‘What’s your opinion?’
‘Internal bleeding can’t be good news, can it?’ Naomi said.
‘There are a number of possibilities – let’s wait,’ Otterman said.
‘The other thing is this language she and Luke are speaking,’ John said. ‘What are your thoughts on that?’
The paediatrician raised his hands in the air. ‘I’m baffled by that.’ He glanced down at his notes. ‘You saw the psychiatrist, Roland Talbot, a couple of months ago, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘He thinks they are quite exceptionally gifted. I don’t think I’d concern yourselves too much over that, although I have to say, the pattern on the floor, it’s a pretty impressive mathematical feat. We’re still in a very early stage of understanding how the human brain works. There have been a number of documented instances of quite extraordinary communication between twins. Mathematics is sometimes a feature of autism—’
Naomi interrupted him. ‘Autism? Do you think they’re autistic?’
‘It’s one possibility they could be somewhere on the spectrum, although I personally don’t think so. But that is something we need to be aware of as a possibility.’ He said nothing for a moment, then went on. ‘Somehow, they’ve hooked into a set of neural pathways that can perform this feat. What they are doing seems unbelievable to us, but is probably perfectly natural to them. Between some point of development in the womb, and the age of seven, our brains hardwire themselves. This could be just a phase – you may well find they lose this ability in another year or so. If there is no change, then there is a very good child behavioural psychologist in Brighton who I would suggest you take them to – but I suspect that won’t be necessary.’
‘I sure as hell hope you are right,’ Naomi said. ‘I find it just a little too weird.’
The paediatrician showed them both to the door. ‘I’ll call you just as soon as I know. Meantime, don’t worry.’
Dr Otterman telephoned two days later. The tone of his voice scared Naomi. He suggested that she and John should come to see him as soon as was convenient, on their own if possible.
60
The consulting room seemed to have changed in the three days since they were last here. On Monday morning, with its yellow walls and huge window, the room had felt light and bright. Now it was dark and oppressive. Naomi and John sat in front of the paediatrician’s desk. Dr Otterman was outside, dealing with some enquiry from his secretary. Panes of glass rattled in the wind. Naomi watched rain lash the street, an autumn equinox gale asserting itself on the town, the countryside, the sea.
A cold wind blew through her. She s
hivered. Nature had so much in its damned arsenal. Hurricanes, tornadoes, earthquakes, volcanoes, tidal waves, floods, meteorites, asteroids. Disease.
She reached out and took John’s hand. He squeezed back, and half turned to her as if he was about to say something. Then Dr Otterman came back into the room and closed the door. ‘Sorry about that,’ he said.
They both watched him anxiously, as the paediatrician eased himself behind his desk. As he sat down he peered at something on his computer screen, then plucked a pen from the black mug in front of him and rolled it backwards and forwards between his fingers. ‘Thanks for coming in,’ he said. ‘I felt it was better for you to hear this in person because – well – it’s a very unusual condition – not life-threatening, but it does of course give rise to concern.’
Naomi and John waited for him to continue.
‘It – well, how can I put it – it affects a very small percentage of all children born in the world. We’re going to need an electroencephalogram to make absolutely sure, but I don’t really have much doubt at all.’
Into the tunnel, Naomi thought bleakly. We’re going back into that damned, bloody tunnel we were in with Halley. Tests. Hospitals. More tests. More specialists. More hospitals.
He put the pen back in the mug, deliberated for some moments, then retrieved it again, his eyes darting between Naomi and John. ‘This bleeding – I didn’t want to give you my diagnosis until I was pretty sure. Now I have the results from the pathology tests and they are still not conclusive. Phoebe is presenting some symptoms of a variant form of a condition known as McCune-Albright syndrome.’
John and Naomi exchanged a puzzled glance. Then John said, ‘I’m sorry, I’ve never heard of this – MacEwan-Albright syndrome?’
‘Yes,’ Dr Otterman said edgily. ‘That’s right, yes, McCune-Albright syndrome.’ His face reddened. ‘It’s also known as precocious puberty.’
‘Puberty, did you say?’ asked Naomi.
He nodded. ‘It’s a congenital abnormality that causes varying forms of early sexual maturity in children, as well as other physiological changes.’
